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It has been three months since Sherlock’s return. Everything is relatively back to normal. Except there is a change.

Anderson and Donovan are more irritable. Because they were wrong (and it’s not like Sherlock gave them a reason to like him) and they hate being wrong. Lestrade is even a little sore that he had believed it.

Anyway. The change. Right.

They come to crime scenes, Sherlock berates everyone, John apologizes (a little, but not enough, because even he it a little bitter at Anderson and Donovan), and they solve things in their very dynamic-duo kind of way. (“Hat-man and Robin”, as it were.)

But. But there is something different. And it’s not Lestrade’s newfound, more intense respect for Sherlock. It’s not the fact that Sherlock had faked his own death so as to save his life (mostly John’s, but still, Lestrade was on the list).

It’s.

Hm. It’s something.

Ah. That. Okay. Sherlock’s hand brushed John’s as they examined the body. Just a brush of fingers, but Sherlock doesn’t like to be touched like that. He grabs people’s wrists. Grabs people’s hands and yanks. The brushing on fingers is strange.

And it happens again. Sherlock and John glance up at each other and lock eyes and well now, it feels like he’s watching something private and this is odd.

Odd, but not unexpected.

Sherlock’s eyes cut over to Lestrade, but his fingertips still hover on the top of John’s hand.

“Something amusing you, Lestrade?”

Sherlock obviously knows what it is. He’s a genius after all.

“Oh, no, nothing at all, Sherlock. Just considering a shift in the atmosphere, that’s all.”

“Mmh, stop thinking so loudly then. It’s distracting.”

That’s not what’s distracting you, Lestrade thinks to himself. Sherlock catches the thought, cutting Lestrade with a glare before consulting John about the body.

Well.

Hm.

They seem perfectly happy. And, Lestrade supposes, this is definitely the purpose of these kinds of things.

He wonders if he’ll get invited to the wedding.

(Sherlock glares at him again.)